Escape at Wildriver
by Inksplosion
Summary: "This is a man I would trust with my life" was not Duncan's first thought on meeting Halt. Nor was it his second. One-shot for The Tournament at Gorlan


**Escape at Wildriver**

Prince Duncan scraped a fresh mark on the wall of his prison. It joined the ranks of similar scratches to record how long he'd been cooped up like a damsel in a tower and continued the distressing litany of _nothing you can do_.

Duncan's big hands clenched reflexively and the chip of stone he used as a pencil dug into his palm. It was all he had. His guards were slipshod and slovenly but they had wits enough to keep him powerless. Since the morning Duncan awakened to find himself separated from his friends and caged like a dangerous criminal week had followed unchanging week. The prince's constant companion was the thought of how the treacherous baron of Gorlan had neatly manipulated events to steal Oswald's trust and turn father against son. Now Araluen was now poised to be ruled by a madman, her rightful rulers helpless.

One day, Duncan supposed, Morgarath would come and gloat over his accomplishments—and that would be the day Duncan strangled him.

His guards mostly left him alone. Duncan preferred it that way. They'd laughed themselves sick over his first attempts at convincing them to help him escape and he'd withdrawn, angry with himself for stooping so low. He was a prince and he had a prince's dignity to maintain even if he was allowed nothing else in this forsaken wilderness. He heard the mutter of conversation on the other side of the door. It was a small consolation that his guards were as bored as he was.

Now they were moving around. Duncan frowned. Had he lost track of time? Was the afternoon over and the castle staff bringing supper already? It didn't sound right. Interested, the prince pricked his ears and strained to decipher the sounds from the other room. Had someone tripped? He hoped it was the senior guard; the man delighted in rubbing in Duncan's position as a prisoner and it would be Duncan's turn to laugh if the guard couldn't keep his feet from tangling.

"Prince Duncan!"

There was a note of command in the call, but Duncan didn't recognize the voice. He chose to sit on the bed, bringing his shoulders back and facing the door as if he were seated on the royal throne instead. "Here," responded the prince, dripping regal condescension.

The key turned in the lock and the door was flung open by a barefooted youth with a dark beard and heavy eyebrows that gave his expression a ferocious turn. He wore only an undershirt and trousers and was soaked to the skin. He'd left a wet trail on the stone floor and water still dripped from the uneven ends of his hair. His chest rose and fell from a recent exertion and adrenaline had put a sparkle in his brown eyes. The overall effect was that of a scrawny alleycat caught in a rainstorm and spitting defiance at the world. The knife in his hand looked heavy and dangerous though, and Duncan started to his feet, his own heart racing.

"Who the blazes are you?" If he could keep the table between them until he could grab this fellow's arm he had a chance at surviving this—assuming it was an assassination attempt. It wasn't Morgarath's style, but the baron did have killers on his payroll and if Duncan didn't matter in the long game any more he wouldn't care as long as the job was done.

"I'm Halt. I'm here to get you out of here."

Duncan ventured to the doorway and stared disbelieving at the shambles. Two of his guards were down on the terrace and the third sprawled on the floor. It was Duncan's least favorite guard. Halt stooped and used the man's belt to lash his wrists to his ankles, hauling the stiffened leather tight.

"That should keep him out of mischief," muttered Halt with grim satisfaction. He repeated the process for one of the other guards. From the fletching sticking out of the third's chest, there was nothing to be done for that one.

"Did you do this?" asked the prince. He was counted a formidable warrior but Halt was smaller than he was and armed with only a knife against three men with swords. It rankled, just a little, to think that he might have wasted innumerable opportunities to free himself.

"I did two of them. He did this one." Halt gestured toward a point somewhere outside. "Now. Get your things and come on."

Two was only slightly better odds. Duncan took a step back as Halt came to his feet again, but the man only tossed him the sword and belt from the final guard. With a weapon in his hand, Duncan felt his confidence rise. Perhaps Halt really was here to rescue him.

He didn't have much by way of personal possessions. The prince had the royal signet ring on his hand and wore a surcoat with his personal insignia. He'd been denied a razor, and his beard was ill-kempt. Duncan grabbed his spare shirt and breeches and was ready to go. Halt's final act before leading the way to the terrace was to grab the woolen blanket from the guard's cot.

"That isn't the way out," said Duncan. The stairs were on the other side of the room and descended steeply into the main body of the keep.

Halt grabbed his arm and yanked. Duncan's feet automatically moved to keep his balance and he kept going with only slight pressure from his rescuer. "It is now."

Duncan balked at the sight of the rope trailing down the side of the castle. He might wear the insignia of a red hawk, but he didn't have wings to spread to soar over the empty space that surrounded the walls. In fact, looking over the side made him dizzy—and there was a raging river waiting at the bottom to claim his body and batter it against the rocks. "It's... a long way down."

"Castles tend to be that way," returned Halt, witheringly sarcastic. He hauled on the rope, coiling it over his shoulder he brought up the snaking length. "They build them high for some reason."

Clearly, Halt intended to go as he came. Duncan swallowed. He had no doubt that Halt would go alone if Duncan dragged his feet. "I don't have a head for heights."

If he'd hoped for sympathy from his rescuer, he found none in Halt's flat stare. "There happen to be people out there counting on your person. Would his majesty rather stay in that nice little room?"

The undercurrent of _I have no idea why someone would bother with you_ in Halt's statement stung. Duncan knew he didn't look much like a prince at the moment, but he'd done the best he could! He'd like to see Halt—clearly a foreign mercenary of some sort—do as well with the weight of a kingdom riding on his shoulders. "Someone sent you?" asked Duncan. "Who?"

"Put your foot in this loop and hang on tight," said Halt, refusing to be sidetracked. "Or you can enjoy speculating on that question with Morgarath when he comes to ask you about today."

Duncan did as he was told. Halt gave orders with the assurance they would be obeyed—and quickly.

With a few quick movements Halt shoved the table up against the wall and belayed the rope around one of its legs. He wrapped the free end round his shoulders, seized onto the rope and leaned back, ready to take the strain.

"Away you go."

Even with his feet planted firmly on the stones of the castle wall, Duncan felt the drop yawning beneath him, the rushing river ready to claim his body. He shut his eyes and clutched the rope in a death grip as he backed through the gap in the crenelations. Committed to his course, Duncan used his free leg to fend off the wall as Halt payed the rope out to lower the prince. He heard Halt grunt as he took Duncan's weight, but the bight gave the smaller man a mechanical advantage and the rope continued to run out slow and smooth.

After what seemed like an impossibly long time, Duncan felt his feet contact with the ground. Dirt and grass had never been so welcome, he thought. When he opened his eyes he saw Halt at the edge of the wall, peering down. Duncan smiled and waved before he realized that they were still on the castle side of the river.

Minutes later, Halt joined him and explained the second set of ropes they'd use as a bridge. Even while he talked his hands were busy packing what little had been brought into a bundle. He attached it to the higher of the two ropes and sent it across with a jerk on the rope. It was claimed on the other side by a man in a mottled cloak.

"A Ranger!" breathed Duncan.

"So he tells me," said Halt.

"I didn't know there were any left—any real ones, I mean. The Corps—"

Halt raised an eyebrow. "Less talking. More escaping."

Even if Duncan had wanted to continue talking, the words would have washed out with the first shock of water against his body. He sagged against the rope, feeling it cut into his side and struggled to move his feet forward. It was icy cold, numbing his hands and body. He wasn't sure if someone was calling encouragement over the roar of the water—happy thoughts didn't seem to be Halt's style—but there was freedom at the far end of this rope and he'd already braved the wall. He collapsed on the far bank.

"You know what we forgot?" Halt asked, his voice muffled by the sound of the rushing river.

Duncan sat up and saw that his rescuer had also crossed the ropes and was talking to the Ranger. The prince searched his memory. He'd seen this red-headed fellow before, remembered him as cheerful and presumably loyal. What was his name? Crow-something? Crowley! That was it. It was cold down here, the wind cutting through his soaked clothes like a knife. He noticed that Halt was shivering too.

"What did we forget?" asked Crowley.

"Towels," said Halt. "Lend me your cloak?"

"Sure," said the Ranger, handing it over. "But what's wrong with yours—?"

Halt gave him a ferocious grin as he pulled the blanket from the bundle and tossed it to Duncan. He toweled himself down with his friend's cloak, finishing by vigorously rubbing his head until his hair stuck out in all directions. Duncan mimicked the action with the coarse cloth. It brought warmth back into his numbed limbs. "I'm going to wear mine," said Halt.

"The crown is grateful to you both," said the prince when he felt he could speak without his teeth chattering. He was doubly grateful to Halt, now that he realized Halt had crossed the river twice. Duncan wasn't sure he'd have done it the first time if it hadn't been the way out of prison. He owed both men.

"We're looking forward to Morgarath's expression when he realizes his prize has flown the coop," agreed Crowley.

"I would do better than that," said Duncan. "What reward can I give you?" All he could issue in his current position was a treasury note which may or may not be honored should his rescuers try to cash in.

"Well..." said the Ranger. "There's the matter of the Ranger charter which is currently in some dispute..."

Dry and fully clothed and armed—which for Halt meant an addition of a wicked-looking longbow and quiver of black fletched arrows to the double knives he wore on his belt—the three men mounted their horses. Duncan noticed that Halt's gray pony hadn't needed tethering either. "Halt, why didn't you say you were a Ranger?" he asked as they left Castle Wildriver behind.

"I didn't realize you wanted credentials," said Halt.

"It might have helped. I thought you were going to kill me!" said Duncan.

"If I'd wanted to do that, I wouldn't have crossed that river or climbed that stupid-high wall and engaged in close combat with a bunch of hired muscle," grumbled Halt.

"I'm sure that's very comforting," said Duncan. "But since I didn't know that you were a Ranger, I didn't know at the time that you had that option."

"Halt... didn't you explain what was going on?" asked Crowley.

"I _said_ it was a rescue. Everything else seemed like a good idea not to share until we were actually away."

Duncan took the measure of his companions while they bickered. Halt wasn't really trying to be sarcastic with Crowley, and the red-headed Ranger knew it. They were both blowing off steam after being tightly wound during the rescue. Duncan breathed deeply of the pine scented forest air. Rangers. Loyal to the crown of Araluen. Enemies of Morgarath. It sounded like Halt and Crowley even had a plan—if they ever got around to sharing it with him. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and Duncan brushed his fingers against the red hawk insignia on his surcoat. He'd fallen into good hands this time. The hawk could fly free once more.


End file.
